


Cashmere

by dsa_archivist



Category: due South
Genre: First Time, M/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Romance, Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2006-02-18
Updated: 2006-02-18
Packaged: 2018-11-10 17:35:57
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,306
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11131596
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dsa_archivist/pseuds/dsa_archivist
Summary: Fraser gets some new clothes. Ray gets him out of them.





	Cashmere

**Author's Note:**

> Note from Speranza, the archivist: this story was once archived at [Due South Archive](http://fanlore.org/wiki/Due_South_Archive). To preserve the archive, I began manually importing its works to the AO3 as an Open Doors-approved project in June 2017. I tried to reach out to all creators about the move and posted announcements, but may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this creator, please contact me using the e-mail address on [Due South Archive collection profile](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/duesoutharchive).

Cashmere

## Cashmere

  
by DeNile  


Disclaimer: The boys and their world don't belong to me. They belong to other people, people who have money.

Author's Notes: My second posted fic, and I just want to thank all the people who commented on my first. This is for you guys. It's got that smut you were asking for.   
Again, encouragement, comments, and constructive criticism will be savoured at great lengths.   
And I'd really like to thank my volunteer beta reader, the amazing Madam Selene, who doesn't normally do this slash stuff, but humours me out of the goodness of her heart.

* * *

I'm in the middle of one of those days. The ones that come out of nowhere and blow everything out of the water. The days that come along just when you think you have everything figured out and then, _bang_ , everything's upside down. Black is white, up is down, democrats are republicans, yadda yadda yadda.  
  
It really began pretty normally. My alarm goes off, I put it on snooze a dozen or so times before I finally roll out of bed and into a shower, dress, zap yesterday's coffee, and book it out of there. Pick up good coffee on the way to work, drink that down by the time I get through the doors, grab a cup of the slop they call coffee once I'm there, glare around the room at all the people who look more awake than me, and sit down at my desk and glare at the paperwork. By the time I've reduced the slop in my cup to a grainy film at the bottom, I'm about ready to do my job. Which I'm good at. No, no false modesty here. I kick ass at what I do. I became a cop for a reason, and it wasn't _just_ to piss my dad off. I'm good at being a cop. I like it. I do good work.  
  
I do _better_ work when Fraser is around. Took me a while to realise that, and then it took me even longer to come to terms with it, but yeah, Fraser makes me a better cop. And yeah, took me even longer than _that_ to realise it, but he makes me a better person too. I know. I know. Sounds like I'm about to go Jerry Maguire and start spouting crap like `you complete me' or something, but no, really. He does. I never realised I was missing a part of myself until I met him. _That_ had been another one of _those_ days. I've come to terms with a lot about myself since meeting Fraser.  
  
It isn't quite lunch yet, but I'm already waiting for him to show up. Nothing new about that. I've called people, arranged things, even done some paperwork and managed to get the damned printer to do something other than fart at me. All I gotta do now is wait. Because I can this cop-type jazz on my own, but why would I want to?  
  
I'm not the only one waiting for him. Frannie's decked out in a new mini and some kickin' boots. It blows me away that she thinks that's the kind of thing that'll turn Fraser's head. Hell, I can't fault the girl for trying. God knows... Well, I just feel kinda bad for her, cause I _know_ that Fraser is never going that way. But I can't criticise her because, guess what? We're both waiting for him. In more ways than one. She's just a little more obvious about it. You won't be catching me in a mini and knee-high boots.  
  
Um, yeah. Anyway, I'm sitting there, pretending to be _very busy_ so that the Lieu leaves me alone, and in walks Fraser, sans-wolf.  
  
And everyone, not just Frannie and me, but everyone, including the Ducks, lets out a _gah_ noise.  
  
Because Fraser is _not wearing the uniform_. And yeah, technically it's his day off so he doesn't _have_ to wear the uniform. But he's not wearing his Fraser-does-down-time outfit either... i.e. Pale jeans, white Henley, and some kind of lumberjack shirt. He's not even wearing the hat. No. Fraser is wearing dark indigo, hug-his-ass, cup-the-package jeans and a Saran-wrap black sweater that has to be cashmere. Not that I know a helluva lot about cashmere, but that's not a cotton sweater, that much I know. Cotton doesn't mould itself to people that way. Cotton doesn't shimmer that way with every movement of every muscle and... ahem.  
  
And maybe, if it was just the jeans and the sweater, all would be good, but no. He is _also_ wearing sunglasses and _boots_ , and, yes, Frannie has the right idea, boots really are the right way to go. And as he walks into the room, he slides his leather jacket off his shoulders and flips it over the crook of his elbow before sliding the glasses off his nose, looking exactly like the Hollywood hunk he's occasionally mistaken to be. No, I take that back. Not like a Hollywood hunk. He looks like a wet dream. Like _my_ wet dream. And if I'm not careful, I'm gonna have a wet-dream-type adolescent problem here.  
  
But other than the slinky look, he acts like the world is the right way around, like we didn't just have some kind of magnetic pole shift. He spots me and smiles and starts heading my way. Frannie, at this point, would be tripping him up, but she doesn't because she, like the entire rest of the bullpen, is frozen in place, staring at this modern miracle of mankind.  
  
He comes right over to me and smiles, showing white teeth, and he says, "Hello, Ray," in a voice that has haunted some of my more guilty dreams.  
  
"Huhgya," I say back to him.  
  
He gets that little crease between his eyebrows, the one that makes me want to smooth it out, preferably with my tongue, and he asks, all concerned, "Are you well?"  
  
I shake myself and reach for my cup of coffee. "I'm good," I croak and then drain the cup. Bleh... grainy film. Forgot about that. "Nice threads, Frase. They new?"  
  
He looks down at himself and blushes. Oh good. Still Fraser then. Not some kind of sexy, evil, soap-opera twin. He looks back up at me and licks his lip. Then does it again, slowly.  
  
I'm reconsidering the evil twin idea. Yeah. I think I'm in some serious trouble.  
  
"I... I was told by... an associate... that if I wished to..." Big-time blush now, "...to, uh, attract a certain person's attention, I needed to procure myself a new wardrobe." He paused and then goes straight into Mountie-lecture mode. "Quite like many species of animals, who use their natural coat, or plumage, to attract the attention of a mate during mating seasons. The mallard duck, for instance has a brightly coloured head which..."  
  
I tune him out and just sort of watch his mouth move. Mallard's green head, brightly coloured feathers, something, something, I don't even care. I can see straight through this. What I can't see is which certain person he's trying to attract. Cause if it's me, he really didn't need to bother. I'd take him naked. Uh... well, you know what I mean.  
  
I'm really hoping it's me. If it's not... this day is gonna go straight down the crapper.  
  
"Fraser," I interrupt him and he flushes up to his hairline and shuts his mouth. He sits down in his chair and I lean forward, just a little, just enough to push into that wide, personal space he's got, catch his attention. "You look good."  
  
"Ah," he puts two fingers to his collar and runs them over the slight V of the neck. It's very slight. Just enough to give us all a hint of that hollow at the base of his throat. "You also look..."  
  
"Not as good as you." He's about to protest so I sit back and shake my head. "Nuh uh, you can't even try. I rolled straight from the bed to the shower to the car this morning. I'm pretty sure that everything I'm wearing had already been worn sometime earlier this week. And I'm not even gonna get into my hair... You can't think I look good, Fraser, cause I don't. I gotta wake up pretty damned early in the morning in order to have time to look good, and I slept in today."  
  
Another lip lick and he runs his thumb over his eyebrow and gets this expression in the corners of his eyes. It's kinda annoyed, but also a bit... um, constipated, actually. It isn't a new look. I've seen this one before. I've never really been able to interpret it though. I've always had the feeling it was his _Ray, you're a moron_ look. Though I don't actually think he thinks I'm a moron. He seems to think I'm really smart. For some reason.  
  
But anyway, he looks at me with that constipated look and then says, really clearly, "Ray, you're a moron."  
  
My mouth drops open and I make another sound that Webster has yet to put into his dictionary.  
  
He glares at me and sits forward, resting his forearms on the desk, pushing a pile of papers out of the way. For a moment, I'm afraid he's going to climb over the desk and... hit me? Kiss me? I'm not even sure.  
  
"Let me begin again, Ray, and this time listen carefully." He lifts one eyebrow and god, I love it when he does that. Wait, pay attention.  
  
"You look good to _me_ , Ray."  
  
Oh. _Oh_. "Oh," I said aloud and he sits back in the chair and crosses his arms over his chest. Which makes the sweater do something just amazing to his shoulders and arms. Really. I'm in love with his sweater. I want to ask it out for drinks, because I know that if I do, Fraser will have to either come with or take it off. And, really, either one works for me. I look up at him and he's looking at me, waiting. He's doing it again, I think to myself. Jumping rooftops, while I have to scramble to catch up. Maybe it'd just be faster if I jumped rooftops with him.  
  
So I look at him and say, "Okay."  
  
He raises that eyebrow again. "Yes?"  
  
I nod. "Yep." I watch that sunrise smile wash over his face and I look around the room. Frannie is watching us and I can see her seeing us, and I feel bad for a second, because I really do like her, she's a good kid. But it's not my fault she picked the wrong Mountie. Maybe we can set her up with Turnbull or something. I grin at that thought, because wouldn't Vecchio just have a fit to come back and find his sister shacking up with Renfield?  
  
My grin still on my face, I get a thought and look over at Fraser, the grin slipping into a tentative smile. "Frase," I ask cautiously. "Who told you to glam up?"  
  
"Glam... oh, the new wardrobe? Ah, that would be... Constable Turnbull."  
  
"You listened to _Turnbull_?"  
  
"Well..." He flushes and shrugs, making that sweater glisten along his shoulders. God, he's making me thirsty. "He has a better sense of... current trends, I suppose. I'm afraid I feel quite overwhelmed by the priorities placed upon a person here."  
  
"Different than up north, yeah?"  
  
He nods. "It is survival there. Though," he gets an odd, thoughtful look on his face. "I suppose it is survival here as well. One has to dress in this manner in order to attract the attention one requires."  
  
That's just wrong and I know it. I can't have him thinking like that, thinking he's somehow deficient, that the only way a person is going to love him is if he becomes _normal_. God, I don't want him normal. He wouldn't want _me_ if he was normal.  
  
"Frase, you look good no matter what. To me. Honest."  
  
His head snaps up and he _looks_ at me. "Yes?"  
  
I nod. "Yep. You look good to me in the Mountie get-up, in the flannel, in the long-johns, in the sweater, in whatever. You just look good. Period." I pause and then feel my face heat up a bit. "But, um, I gotta say, Frase, I'm liking the sweater. A lot. And... I'm really rather... uh, partial to the hat."  
  
He grins, looking like I'd just handed him the keys to the North. Like I've just made his day. And suddenly, I've had more than enough of this. I stand up and grab my coat.  
  
"Come on," I say. "Let's get out of here."  
  
Fraser frowns a little and asks, "Where are we going? Haven't you work to do?"  
  
"It's lunch time, Frase." I raise my own eyebrow at him.  
  
"Ah," he replies and grins again. "Very well. After you."  
  
I reach out and take his sunglasses from between his fingers and slid them up my own nose. I watch his pupils dilate and smile. Oh yeah. Messy days are great. Love `em. _Love_ `em.  
  
Whatever happens between the doors to the precinct and the doors to my apartment, I have no idea. My whole body is jonesing to a rhythm of _gonna get some, gonna get some, gonna_ get _some, oh yeah, gonna get some_ , nerves prickling under my skin, feel like I'm gonna pop, and Fraser... He just keeps licking his lip over and over, big hand on his thigh, looking at me...  
  
And the next thing I know, my key is dangling from my apartment door, and I'm pressed all up against the wall, six feet of Mountie plastered all down my front. One hand is behind my head, the only reason I didn't conk myself out cold when he slammed me up there, and the other hand is under my shirt, writing languages against my ribs, fingers telling me _want you, want you, want you, Ray, I want you_ , and yeah, I'm ready to go with that. So ready to go with that.  
  
The sweater is soft and slippery, almost the same texture as his hair, I know, cause I'm comparing right now. Soft and slippery, he's got that down. Sweater, hair, tongue, sweat, yeah, yeah, yeah, I thrust my hips up against his and he grunts into my mouth, and his hand is headed down now, flicking my jeans open.  
  
Cold air hitting hot skin, and I'm gasping, pulling away to breathe, pulling away enough to finally notice that we aren't _in_ my apartment. We're in the _hall_. A _public_ hall. Apartment would be better. Still got walls, yeah, but also have floors and couches and kitchen tables and, _oh shit_ , he bites my throat, holding on there, and his hand is still flicking buttons on my 501's.   
  
"Uhgn," I groan and thrust up against him again, pulling him closer. Solid, hard body up against mine. This is like... What was I saying? Oh, yeah. Bed.  
  
Fraser lifts his mouth from my skin and his eyes have gone _black_ and I have no idea what I was thinking. None at all. Want him.  
  
"Bed," Fraser nods, like that means something, and then he's pulling away from me, and I don't like that at all. I make a noise and I grab at him, but he just grins, all sex and Fraser, and opens my door and drags me through it, slamming it behind me.  
  
Endless greatness up against my door, he gets my shirt off and his tongue is writing that language against my skin, my whole body is standing at attention for him.  
  
"Frase..." I groan and he grins again, moving away again, pulling me with him again... Ah, yeah, bedroom. Good thinkin', buddy, partner, yeah, duet, one-two punch... "Shit," I can't help but moan at the sight of him in my dim bedroom. The sweater is slithering up over his torso, sliding over his shoulders, his head disappearing for a second while he takes the sweater off, and then he's just... _Guh_. Can't help it, have to touch him.  
  
"Ben."  
  
"Ray," he answers happily and takes my mouth again in a kiss that ought to be illegal, probably is illegal. Someone taught Fraser how to kiss and kiss well, and it better not have been Turnbull.  
  
I can't help laughing at that, and he looks at me quizzically for a moment, feeding my laughter, and he narrows his eyes at me when I don't stop. He takes off his pants, still glaring at me, challenging me, taking white boxers down with the dark denim, and then stands, completely naked, right there in front of me. Looking at me. Waiting for me.  
  
The laugh strangles in my throat, turning into a desperate moan, _gotta have him, gotta touch him, need him_ , and he seems to know, because he pushes me down onto the bed and strips me of my clothes with Mountie efficiency, and then pushes me back, laying himself down, hard and heavy, on top of me.  
  
"Ben," I say again, liking the taste of it, and he smiles.  
  
"Ray."  
  
And then he moves. God, for a man with no rhythm, voice like a bird but seriously no rhythm, he's proving me wrong. He's got _great_ rhythm.  
  
"Ray," he murmurs and kisses my throat. "I didn't think... I never thought..."  
  
"Yeah," I arch up to meet his thrusts, too gentle, too gentle for my liking, and hook my leg around his to urge him on. "Me neither, Frase. I never, _never_ , never..."  
  
"You want me," there was wonder in his voice, and my eyes open wide to look up into his. "You're here... with me."  
  
"Yeah." I wrap my arms around him, hold him tight even as we move against one another. "I am. I want to be. I want _you_. Just you."  
  
"Just me." His tongue traces along my jaw, down my throat, licking at the hollow in my collarbone, teeth... perfectly precise bite right on the bone. "Ray."  
  
"Shh," I tell him and take his mouth, sucking hard on that soft, warm, slick tongue. His hands tighten on me, thrusts have purpose now, now we're going somewhere, now we're really, really...  
  
"Fraser," I pull away from his mouth and gasp, and he bites down _hard_ on my throat, right on my jugular, and _bam_ , I'm coming like... like death, this is like... " _Fraser_!"  
  
He grunts in satisfaction, and thrusts hard through the wet, warm dampness between us, sliding, thrusting, and I'm pulling at him, saying, "Yeah. Yeah. C'mon. Ben. Come _on_!"  
  
And he does. He _growls_ and comes, head falling back, mouth slack, eyes closed and blissed. He looks... He looks like... He looks like...  
  
"Ray..." He lowers his head, and his eyes are so gone, so right here, right on me, he _sees_ me, he's right here with me. "Ray."  
  
"Yeah," I agree and pull him down. He fights for a minute, but no, no, I pull at him, and finally, he stops fighting and just collapses on top of me. All whatever pounds of him, heavy and real, and I curl my arms around him, holding him tight, not going to let him go, not ever, ever, ever, and I slide my fingers through his damp, sweaty, fucked-out hair, and he moans softly and pushes his head subtly into my hand.  
  
"Ben," I say.  
  
"Mmm?"  
  
I smile and pet through his hair some more. "Hey Ben? I love you, you know."  
  
"Mmm," he answers, his breath hot and sleepy against my throat, and, yeah, maybe he didn't hear me, but it doesn't matter.  
  
I'll tell him again tomorrow.  
  
END  
  


  
 

* * *

End Cashmere by DeNile 

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